


I'm a truthful drunk

by rachel6141997



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, Truthful!Drunk!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel6141997/pseuds/rachel6141997
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't drink.</p><p>For a very, very good reason.</p><p>But the results of the one time he was forced to drink by the collective NSY just might change that.</p><p>In a word, Sherlolly birthed by truthful!drunk!Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a truthful drunk

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a light-hearted Sherlolly piece (Yes, I know, I write way too many Sherlolly pieces that aren't the one I promised, but it IS coming, I swear!)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes had not touched a drop, not since Uni, and it was for a very good reason.

He'd always been warned by his parents that the Holmeses had a very low tolerance for alcohol, and until his second year, he had heeded their warning.

 

He'd been more like Mycroft than he cared to admit, that first year and a half, "collecting" young men and women to his circle, studying them and learning what made people tick, observing and making sense of the intracacies and undercurrents of college society. They thought him brilliant and strange and charming and they worshipped him.

 

He had little use for them as more than a passing amusement.

 

It happened in March, at a party, hip enough to contain the elite, but by no means a high class event. Multiple elements of society were present, and he had reveled in the opportunity to study not only the intermingling of the different elements but also how the presence of a large quanitity of alcohol affected it. It went quite well, he thought, until one of his sycophants had offered him a drink.

 

He had been about to refuse it when he hesitated. He had just spent nearly an hour studying its effects, but surely the only way to truly understand its effects was to drink it. The sycophant, picking up on his opportunity pressed him, and Sherlock had relented, taking the glass- a decision which would leave him cursing his stupidity afterwards.

 

Sherlock Holmes, like the rest of his family, had a very low tolerance for alcohol. Which was problematic in itself, but Sherlock also had his own, peculiar reaction to alcohol. 

He wasn't an angry drunk, nor a happy one. Nor was he a touchy-feely drunk, or a drunk who's inteligence became dulled.

Sherlock was a truthful drunk. Something about alcohol lowered his inhibitions and compromised his ability to lie and to affect pretense.

 

For someone who had a low opinion of his surroundings and the people within them, it wasn't good.

For someone whose deductive abilities remained uncomprimised, it was an unmitigated disaster.

He left the college for University within a few months, but he never touched alcohol again. Nor did he ever again attempt to join society in an acceptable manner.

 

***

 

His self-imposed abstinence was never difficult to maintain. He'd learned his lesson, and he'd never been known for his lack on self-control.

It helped that Sherlock was not someone you would invite out for drinks even if you likes him. Which most people didn't.

And when he met John, who would have invited him out regardless, well- John rarely drank himself. He was quite aware of his family's predeliction to alcoholism and had no desire to emulate Harriet Watson.

So Sherlock quite happily stayed clear of alcohol of any kind, and no one tried to change that.

At least, not until the New Scotland Yard Christmas Party.

 

***

 

It was a year after Sherlock's return from "death". John had forgiven him, the media had finally lost interest, and the awkward tension between the consultant detective (and friend) and NYS had finally dissipated.

Things were as they were before, with one notable exception.

 

Molly Hooper. She was a conundrum. He had been truthful when he had told her she had always counted, but in the days following the Fall (as it must always be termed in his head), she had somehow grown to count even more.

Perhaps it had started when he saw her outside of St. Barts, or perhaps it was when she started to stand up to him, inner steel showing at last.

Perhaps it had started a long time ago, and he had only begun to realize it now.

 

Whenever it had started, somehow, incontrovertibley, it ended with a change to the list of People Who Meant Everything. There was John, of course, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and even Mycroft, but now there was Molly too, with her too-big clothes that his a surpisingly attractive figure and her cups of cofee and her cheerful smile and her unconditional  _love_ , which is something that he's learned enough to treasure for its rarity.

Molly, whether she knew it or not, now held the key to his heart, as well as (to his startled surprise and some level of indignation, he'd had control for years!) to certain biological functions.

She didn't know, of course. No one knew. Sherlock would previously have said he knew nothing of what embarrassment felt like, but he was now acutely aware that if they (everybody, anybody) knew how he felt, well....

 

***

 

The NSY was holding a Christmas party. Nothing really special, just Lestrade's section and their "affiliates"- meaning Sherlock, John, and Molly. Sherlock stood in his room and winced, although no one was there to see it. Memories of the Christmas part at Baker Street four years back still haunted him on occasion. It was just another reason of many why he hadn't said anything to Molly. He glanced disdainfully at the small stack of presents on his bed. He'd gotten something for everyone, even Anderson, but only at John's insistance. He wasn't much of a presents person.

 

"Sherlock! It's time to go!" John called out irritably, poking his head through the door. "God, sometimes I think that with the way I have to nag you to do everything there might be something to the rumors afterall." Sherlock turned to his flatmate and raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed. Is there something you haven't been telling me, John?" His friend rolled his eyes and left with a small noise of disgust. Sherlock smiled, gathered his gifts, and followed him out to the waiting taxi.

 

***

 

"Merry Christmas, everybody!" Molly's voice filtered cheerfully over the sound of music, and Sherlock twitched, rubbing his fingers self consiously. It was so similar to the last time- at a party, that is.

He'd spent Christmas alone during the three years he was tracking dow the remainders of Moriarty's organization.

 

Molly was smiling brilliantly, laughing at a joke Sally Donovan made. She shook her head in reply as she shrugged off her coat, and Sherlock swallowed slightly. It was a different dress from the last party, more flattering, accentuating her curves, and her hair-

She had cut her hair short, and it framed her face in soft waves, bouncing as she talked.  _Beautiful,_ he thought.  _Molly is beautiful. Why did it take me so long to see that?_  Perhaps control wasn't such a good thing if it blinded him to what every other male in the nearby vicinity could see.

He was off to the side, as always, reluctant to socialise, to be "normal". It was almost expected of him. It had been so long he wasn't sure if he knew how to join in.

 

He had always thought Molly to be awkward, but she talked and joked with Sally and Greg with ease. She seemed to brighten the room.

 

Molly.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. So MAYBE that isn't how alcohol actually works, but I was thinking of this as I was half a sleep, and you'll live despite my improbable science.
> 
> And there will be more, obviously, but it was sitting in my drafts box, close to getting dumped, and I can't work on it now so it will be muilt-chapter.


End file.
